Land of Milk and Honey
by Dax Farroh
Summary: Most Precious is the first born since the End. Ejected from her sheltered childhood, can she beat the Wasteland and the wrath of her immortal father? Not without help. ...
1. Born

On the day she was born, the whole city sat quiet. The silence was its own entity - a hesitant yet heavy hope that weighed upon the heart of every man and woman who was sentient enough to know. They all knew, as the horn was blown and they gathered in the square at the base of the Citadel, that the news that was to come would change the glimmer of future that lived in each of their withering minds.

If the news was good, well then all things were possible. All things, even God himself smiling down upon them. If it was bad, then it was over. Twenty-five times would be too many, even for five healthy wives. It would have to be over.

And then he came out into the mouth of the skull, that artificially-kept relic who looked less immortal each time and more like a man refusing to die. _How could anything living come from him?_ they wondered.

But then a powdered henchmen held up the microphone to his mouthpiece, and his voice rang out strong and true across the canyon. It shattered the silence in a mighty wave, shaking the crowd in their feeble bodies. Those who had binoculars brought them up to their eyes.

"Rejoice, my people, for I am your redeemer! It is by my loins that you will rise from the ashes of this world!"

They began to murmur amongst themselves, ghostly faces turning to meet sunken eyes.

"My child has been born by The Splendid Angharad! A healthy child!"

Through their binoculars, some could see the wrinkled, pink face within the bundle that was handed to their leader. The bundle was tiny, but not too tiny. _Looks right,_ they thought.

With seamless strength, he held it high above his head, and it wriggled. _It wriggled._

"THE FIRST!" he bellowed.

"THE FIRST!" some of them cried out in return.

"I share with you this precious gift, just as I share with you all that gives life!"

On cue, the henchman pushed the big, shiny levers all the way to "full," and the water fell down upon them as it never had before, drenching their tattered clothes so that the dust ran off them in rolling, brown rivets.

The bowls and jugs that they kept on them always were filling too fast to drink, so they stood with their mouths wide open like grounded fish, not caring if they drowned, for no other death could be so sweet.

The water ran even as their savior lowered the Precious and turned his back to disappear into the throat of the skull. It ran long after he was gone, well until dusk. And they drank and drank and drank until their bellies bulged and their heads swam with the most fanciful liquid dreams.

 _To be continued ..._


	2. Raised

She liked it when the sun grew pink and low and shone softly into the room through the skylight as it did now. It cast a rosy glow on the earthen walls and the pages of her book _Jane Eyre_. She could relate to the heroine's fondness for reading in windowsills, even though she had never seen a window that looked out onto anything but sky. And although she could also somewhat relate to the hardship of having a detestable aunt _(that Dag),_ she could not in any way understand that of an evil cousin, or sibling, or any peer at all, for this was _her_ hardship.

Precious had always been excellent at entertaining herself, as she did now. Reclining upon the pillows laid about on the floor, she balanced one leg on the other's propped up knee and let her foot dangle whimsically in time with Louis Armstrong's crooning from the phonograph.

 _I see trees of green_

 _Red roses, too_

She had seen trees, once, on the terraces when Nanny took her there. She closed her eyes and remembered impossible green; a lovely, lush rattling in the breeze. When she stood beneath, it was cool and moist, and the air felt lighter. Below, everything was dead, dry, and red. Not a striking kind of red that she imagined a rose might be. It was a barren and angry red.

She had learned that day that, unless she could live on the terraces as she dearly hoped she could, the Nursery was by far the best place. Buried deep in the ground, the thick walls kept them cocooned in coolness and in warmth, when needed, and the sunlight was always a welcome and gentle thing. And then there were all the books – more than any mortal could hope to have, her papa had told her.

When he visited, after he presented her with a newly-made dress or a string of pearls, she would select a book from the shelves and coax him to read it to her. As she sat on his lap, she would breathe in the pleasant mustiness of the book when he opened it, not noticing the smell of rot and talcum or the hollow sound of his voice through the mask. He was her papa.

But he had not read to her in a while. His visits, though they had become more frequent, were also more brief. She knew it was because of her mother, who had not been so big with child since the time two years ago when Miss Giddy had emerged from the bedroom with a bundle that she buried on the terraces. No one had told her what happened, but she was ten years old then and had seen enough of these things to know.

Afterward, when they had let her go into the bedroom, her mother was lying on her side with a shadowed face. She reached out to her daughter, looking so reduced and small that it hurt to look at her. "It's alright, Joanie," she whispered. Precious hated answering to that name, but she had given up long ago. She crawled into bed with her mother and let her stroke her hair, barely standing to be so close to her in this state, but also not wanting to leave her.

"Will you be sad again?" Precious asked. "Now that it's gone." Her mother was always melancholy, but it seemed to lessen when she was with child. As Precious had never observed anything more miserable or less likely to succeed than a pregnancy, she could not for the life of her understand why.

"You know that I will, my love, for reasons you will someday come to know." Her mother kissed the top of her head and pulled her even closer with trembling hands. She engulfed Precious' senses now with smells that had names: fear, pain, and love. "But not because you are not enough. You are my first, my only, and my Most Precious."

* * *

"Why don't you put on some music, Precious?" Capable suggested abruptly as she moved away from the locked door toward the circle of women on the floor. Her bubbly tone wasn't enough to drown out the raucous coming from inside the bedroom.

"Oh, let her hear it," droned The Dag as she rubbed her swollen belly absently. "Give 'er a taste of what's to come."

The shouting grew louder. It was her mother. She could make out certain words now: "whore", then "warlord" and "will not". In all her twelve years, she had never heard her mother so much as raise her voice – most certainly not to him.

"Don't listen, Precious. Please," bade Capable more urgently. "Why don't we all play a game?"

"Why is she yelling at him?" she asked, fighting two separate urges to listen through the door and run far away. She had never dealt with a situation like this before, but she knew in her heart it would not end well. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

A cackling laugh emerged from The Dag. She had a way of luxuriating, of stretching her lanky limbs in ridiculous directions, as if she was asserting her dominance and ownership over everything. Precious hated it. The Dag wasn't even close to being the favorite. That was her mother's distinction, and her mother bore _her_ : The First, The Only, and the Most Precious.

"Ugh, you poor girl!" The Dag spat out between hysterics. "Daddy Deathlord spoiled you so bad, your brain rot right outta your pretty head!"

"That's enough, Dag," muttered Toast, who did not raise her head or open her eyes.

"But it's true," whispered The Dag, suddenly somber and boring into Precious with those empty, wide eyes that gave her chills. "You're going to be one of us. You just can't see it yet."

There was an unmistakable sound of flesh slamming flesh that made all five look to the door. Moments later, it swung open and her papa's hulking form appeared where it once was. His face shone red through the white powder and his eyes burned above his mask.

"You will not disturb her," he warned, his gaze flickering wildly about the room. "She is on bed rest until my heir is born."

And he left.

"Why don't you put on some music, Precious?" Capable suggested abruptly as she moved away from the locked door toward the circle of women on the floor. Her bubbly tone wasn't enough to drown out the raucous coming from inside the bedroom.

"Oh, let her hear it," droned The Dag as she rubbed her swollen belly absently. "Give 'er a taste of what's to come."

The shouting grew louder. It was her mother. She could make out certain words now: "whore", then "warlord" and "will not." In all her fifteen years, she had never heard her mother so much as raise her voice – most certainly not to him.

"Don't listen, Precious. Please," bade Capable more urgently. "Why don't we all play a game?"

"Why is she yelling at him?" she asked, fighting two separate urges to listen through the door and run far away. She had never dealt with a situation like this before, but she knew in her heart it would not end well. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

A cackling laugh emerged from The Dag. She had a way of luxuriating, of stretching her lanky limbs in ridiculous directions, as if she was asserting her dominance and ownership over everything. Precious hated it. The Dag wasn't even close to being the favorite. That was her mother's distinction, and her mother bore _her_ : The First, The Only, and the Most Precious.

"Ugh, you poor girl!" The Dag spat out between hysterics. "Daddy Deathlord spoiled you so bad, your brain rot right outta your pretty head!"

"That's enough, Dag," muttered Toast, who did not raise her head from her hands or open her eyes.

"But it's true," whispered The Dag, suddenly somber and boring into Precious with those empty, wide eyes that gave her chills. "You're going to be one of us. You just can't see it yet."

There was an unmistakable sound of flesh slamming flesh that made all five look to the door. Moments later, it swung open and her papa's hulking form appeared where it once was. His face shone red through the white powder and his eyes burned above his mask.

"You will not disturb her," he warned, his gaze flickering wildly about the room. "She is on bed rest until my heir is born."

And he left.

 _To be continued. ..._


	3. Caught

He didn't know exactly what he was running from. It may have been the horde of zealots that he heard splashing and whooping behind him, or it may have been the specters of horrors past that flashed before his eyes with amplified ire.

Either way, he supposed it felt good to run. Now, "good" was a strong word, but he had spent so many months bound to his car and the torturous innerworkings of his mind that he felt akin to a caged animal set free. It felt "good" to want something other than food, water, and dreamless sleep. He wanted not to die.

Or at least not to die shackled up again by the clammy hands of his captors. This desire manifested itself as a simple instinct which drove him to leap off a cliffside without hesitation. He was reaching for the great moving hook that hung before him, though even as he did so, he knew full well that he would likely fall short. He was at peace with this until his manacles caught the hook and he looked down to see just how long that plummet would take.

His vision wove in and out as he swung wildly. With all his strength, he pulled his body upward in an attempt to counter the momentum of the hook. It wasn't working.

Being a little mad had kept him alive for many years in this world, but he was still sane enough to know that he could not beat the laws of physics. He was going to swing straight back into the outstretched arms of those black eyed bastards, and they were loving every second of it. A few of them had even procured hooked poles to snag him with.

There was a moment when he considered unloosing himself, letting go. But that, too, was against those goddamned laws of physics. And so, rather, he clung desperately to the hook as a hundred hungry hands threatened to joyously tear him apart, clawing every inch of his twisting body as they dragged him back into the blackness from whence he'd run.

* * *

Precious stepped out onto the balcony behind her father. The intensity of both the sun above and the crowd below struck her simultaneously, and it took her a moment to regain control of her senses. When she did, she stepped toward the ledge to look upon the roaring masses.

Up here, they didn't look like people. They were a sea of brown and black. If she focused very closely she could distinguish an occasional face, toothless and grisly with wild eyes. Still, those faces looked nothing like people as she knew them. She had learned over the years that it was better to view them as one would a mosaic, choosing to admire the sum of its parts.

These were the masses that her father maintained. Indeed, they were Wretched, but he gave them life just the same. That was what her papa did, as he had explained it to her time and time again. Not only did he share with them the food and water of the Citadel, but he also shared with them all the hope of eternal glory. It was her, he'd said. It was she his War Boys died for. She was the hope of all the world.

This was why he brought her out once a year on her birthday to show the masses. In her first year alone, she had already surpassed all hopes. Now, she would soon be a woman of unparalleled education and vitality. Her papa could rest easy when his time came.

Her heart jumped as she wondered if her father's speech would have something to do with this, as today was not her birthday.

"My people!" he bellowed through his mask into the microphone. A hush fell abruptly over the crowd, making Precious' ears ring.

"Today is a momentous day! Today is a day that will be remembered, shiny and chrome, until the end of days!"

She felt her papa's hand on her back, pushing her gently toward the low-walled edge of the skull's mouth. There was a box placed for her there that she stood upon. She was now equal in height to her father.

"Not only is the Splendid Angharad preparing to give birth to my heir, but today you will also witness the ascension of a true warrior into the realm of immortality!"

Precious felt rather formidable standing there with the wind tossing her golden brown hair, though her papa had never referred to her as a "warrior" before. She turned her head ever so slightly to meet his eye, but he did not return her gaze.

It was then she noticed a man standing the other side of him. She could not see his face, but he was monstrously large and covered in scars like craters on the moon. And he was also standing on a box.

She suddenly felt very small.

"Upon his return from Gas Town, Imperator Valkyrie will be bound to my daughter, Most Precious! He will be of my own blood and will guard the halls of Valhalla alongside me!"

The roar of the crowd cracked over her like a whip. She tried to look at her papa but found she could not. She could only stare down into the black and brown mosaic that was beginning to blur before her eyes.

Shadows began to press into her vision, and she found herself standing still with the entire world spiraling around her. As she surrendered to the darkness, she heard the chants of "Valhalla" rising from below.

 _To be continued. ..._

 _Note:_ _I'm totally appreciative of reviews, but go easy on me. I write for a living and thought I'd try this out to blow off some steam after writing things I don't enjoy all day. I'm not sticking too religiously to canon, as I like the freedom in fanfiction to write original stories without having to make up an entirely new world. Let me know what you think!_


	4. Long Night

_Drip, drip, drip. …_

There was the salt of his sweat as it ran up his face, dripping on the floor. There was the metallic of blood as it pooled in his head and was funneled out slowly through the tube that bit into his neck like a suckling snake.

He was suspended, quite literally, between the two demons in his mind: the lucid and the mad. He had chosen after only a few minutes not to occupy his body as it hung there, and rather let the demons battle for dominance as he counted the seconds between each _drip, drip, drip_. …

* * *

When her senses came back to her, she was not grateful for it. They had gone more gracefully than they returned. Her head felt a hundred pounds heavier, her stomach felt like she'd swallowed a rock, and everything was wrong. Terribly wrong.

" _Shhh_ , my dear, you're alright."

She started when she noticed the cool cloth on her forehead and the circle of wives gathered around her. She was back in the Nursery, in her soft bed. The skylight was dark and there were lit candles everywhere – more than usual. It increased her unease.

"Wh – what happened?" her voice broke through her dry throat.

The Wives exchanged doleful looks and seemed at a loss for words. Except the Dag, who rolled her eyes and sighed languidly. "You're really not going to tell her? It's not like that'll make it any less –" in lieu of a word she inserted a gagging noise and stuck a finger in her mouth. Her moonbeam hair and complexion were ethereal in the candlelight, yet she was a despicable sight.

Precious had not forgotten her father's words on the balcony. She had not forgotten the expansive back of the warrior who stood on the box or the craters in his skin. She knew what was said and what was meant, but she still needed someone to tell her, because it could not be the truth. It was not _her_ truth.

" _Fine_ ," moaned the Dag, though there was delight in her eyes. "If you girls are too soft to tell her, then I will." They all spat out cries of protest, but she was too quick: "Daddy Dearest is selling you off to his favorite warlord."

"Shut up, Dag!" cried Capable.

"Do you wanna know why they call him 'the Valkyrie'?" Precious was sitting up now, petrified and powerless to move as the Dag leaned in close. Her crystalline eyes were absolutely mad but held purposeful ire. "Your betrothed is the one who decides who lives and who dies in battle. When an enemy is injured beyond fighting, he's the one who decides if he will be _useful,_ or -" the Dag drew a sharp finger across her pale neck, leaving a welted streak there.

"Do you wanna know _how_ he ends them?" she baited wickedly, ignoring the Wives' pleas and scratching the hands that reached for her with dirty nails. Precious wanted to shake her head "no", but it would not have made a difference.

Suddenly, the Dag's cold fingers wrapped around Precious' throat as she brought her mouth to her ear and whispered, "He rips out their throats. _With his teeth_."

The Dag reclined back, satisfied. She retreated to a corner of the room, cradling her belly, and did not say another word.

"It's not true," Cheedo tried softly, after a thick silence. Her almond eyes, ever sincere, betrayed her.

Precious felt a hot sting behind her eyes and thought she might cry. But she didn't. To her own surprise, that heat spread to her stomach and then to her extremities, and it consumed her from within until she was shaking. She felt an unnatural power, like she could crush them all into red dust if she wanted to. She hated how they watched her with helpless pity. How weak they were. She had loved them once, pitied _them_ in their inconsequence and their small, futile ambitions. Even the Dag, for whatever had ruined her. But she felt no love, now, and she was no longer thinking. Usually, she thought too much. She found both liberation and terror in the rage that coursed through her veins. She would not be pitied; she would set this right.

"I want to speak with my father." Her voice was quietly dangerous and unrecognizable to her own ears.

They did not answer, only stares.

 _"I want to speak with my father."_

They shifted and exchanged fleeting glances, their growing discomfort evident. It fueled her fury.

 _"Take me to my father!"_ She stood up on her bed, looking down at them. She pointed fiercely at the door through which he came and went, her rage flaring out of control. It was a bad feeling, now, like she had gone too far and she couldn't stop. _"It's a mistake! It's all wrong - I just need to talk to him!"_

Capable tried to take her hand gently but she threw her off. _"Or maybe it was_ you," she whispered as the thought occurred to her. Yes, maybe it was the Wives who gave him the idea, planting their jealousy like poison in a well. It was a terrible thought, but it was better than any alternative.

"That's enough, Precious," Toast finally spoke, her compassion drained and replaced by annoyance. "We _did not_ do this."

Precious knew it was the truth. She could feel her strength leaving her, but maintained her determination. "I still want to speak with him."

The Wives questioned each other with their eyes once more, and she noticed for the first time how exhausted they all looked.

Capable was the first to make up her mind. "We'll have you taken to him tonight," was her resigned promise. "But first, you have to go see your mother."

* * *

The birthing room was dark and damp and wreaked of primordial smells, and it was the last place on earth she ever wanted to be. There was a shadowy mound that writhed in sweat-soaked sheets, obscured by the scented smoke of mysterious herbs. This was the chamber of the macabre. Nothing good ever happened here - only pain and death. Precious found herself planted firmly in the doorway, unwilling and unable to take another step.

"Shut the door now, Precious. She's sensitive to the light." It was Miss Giddy, the only other occupant of the room. She was grinding some potent concoction with a mortar and pestle. "Come in now, child, it's just your mother. She won't bite. Or maybe she will, in this state," the old woman looked up from her work to give Precious a solid wink.

Miss Giddy had done this so many times - ground so many concoctions and massaged them into spasming backs with lighthearted encouragement, as if nothing could go wrong and failure was impossible. Precious always wondered how a woman so wise and well-read could repeatedly submit to such delusions. It was almost like madness. ...

"True insanity is when you do the same thing over and over to the same effect, but expect a different outcome," Miss Giddy had told her once. "Therefore, _you_ , my dear, are the only evidence that I am not mad."

Precious submitted to Miss Giddy's eternal optimism, for a moment, at least, so that she could approach her mother. She knelt down beside the bed and breathed shallowly against the pungent smoke. Her mother turned to look at her through streams of sweat. Her eyes were brimmed with moisture and Precious wondered if it was from the smoke or if she was truly crying. Her mother was loathe to cry, even in labor. It felt wrong to be coming to her mother in this state and lay her worries upon her, but, after all, she was told to come here. And this problem could not wait. The convoy would leave for Gas Town in the morning, and if she was not able to sort things out with her father before it returned. ... Well, she couldn't really imagine what would happen, but she was sure her mother would not support it.

"Mummy," she whispered timidly, not wanting to trigger some horrific throe. Her mother lifted her depleted visage into a smile. Precious supposed she didn't call her "mummy" as often as she used to, and she had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her full, pink lips and deep blue eyes were set aflame with pain, and her high cheekbones were enhanced by the sheen of sweat in candlelight. Precious had always wanted to look just like her when she grew up, and although she was nearing the end of her changing years, she still imagined waking up one morning a complete woman and seeing her mother's face in the mirror.

"Mummy, I have something to tell you."

"I know, my love," her mother replied very softly. It was clear that speaking was just another labor for her.

"Well, it's Papa. He wants me to get married - to give me away - to a man - an imperator. ... And, anyway, I think I'm not ready to get married. So, we need to talk with him - tonight - and tell him I don't want to. I think I'm too young. ... Right?"

Precious was put off by her mother's silence and unbroken smile, though she hadn't given her much time to reply. After a moment of waiting, her mother took her hand in a moist, chilly grasp, as if this was her response. She held her hand firmly, projecting a hungry love through it and through her eyes, as if she had never seen her daughter before or never would again. ... But she did not say a word.

Precious began to feel very cold in her extremities, even though the room was practically steamy. The chill quickly reached her core and made her quiver. She pulled her trembling hand away from her mother's hold, struck with the same sense of betrayal that overcame her just minutes ago with the Wives, though this time, she felt very small instead of powerful and there was an ache in her chest. Her tears were a shock of heat against the chill of her body; they rose up painfully in her throat until she could not contain them and spilled out down her cheeks. Like her mother, she was loathe to cry and used both hands to wipe them away.

"My love, don't cry," her mother finally spoke, her smile faded. "It's alright, I already know."

"You _knew?!_ " If there were a knife in her chest, it was twisting now. "And you didn't tell me!?"

 _"Shhh,_ child," Miss Giddy bade from a dark corner of the room. Apparently, she had been listening intently. Precious could barely see her crinkled face in the dim light, but it was very serious. "She knows what's best. Just hear her out."

Precious looked from Miss Giddy back to her mother. She crossed her arms across her chest and held back her tears with almost comical force. She didn't know what else to do. Her world was crumbling around her.

"Listen to me, Joanie," plead her mother with intensity. Precious didn't want to look her in the eye, but her mother's gaze was steadfast. She spoke her next words very slowly and deliberately: "I _will not_ let him give you away. That will never happen."

It was incredible how quickly the pain in her chest lifted, like a fifty pound weight had been take off of it. Precious had never felt such as vast range of emotions in a single day, and it took her aback. The tears continued to flow, but they came from a different place - one of warmth and love. She had never loved her mother as much as she did right now. She climbed onto the bed and curled up beside her, wrapping her arm carefully around her bosom. She could hear her mother's heart beat, quick and erratic, but still the most comforting sound. She prayed to all gods that she would survive this night and that all would be set right by the time the sun rose.

"Will you talk to Papa, then?" she asked after a moment of listening to their breathing synchronize as her repressed sobs lessened to hiccups.

Again, another silence, but Precious assumed her mother was conserving her strength. She was surprised when she finally did speak that her voice had a sharp edge. "I've already spoken to him, Joan. You know that."

With a pang, Precious remembered the cries from behind the closed door; the sickening sound of a blow. She looked up into her mother's face and acknowledged for the first time the blotches of purple spreading out from her left eye and disappearing beneath her golden hair. For once, Precious felt ashamed.

"I'm sorry, mummy," she murmured, meaning it. She would not subject her mother to that again. She would take care of this herself. "I'm going to see Papa now."

She kissed her mother on the cheek and began to rise from the bed, but was alarmed when her mother took her hand again - this time to keep her there.

"No, you're not." She held her with unexpected strength.

"It's okay, mum. I can do this," Precious reassured her, trying to be gentle in return. Perhaps her mother wasn't quite as lucid as she seemed. The smoke was taking its effect.

"No, my love. I know that you love your father, but you don't _know_ him. Not really."

And there it was, exposed as if from beneath an old bandage, the age-old turmoil that lay between them.

"No, _you_ don't know him because you don't love each other. You're just jealous that he loves me - that he brings gifts to me and reads to me and tells me things! You think he doesn't have the capacity to love - just because he doesn't love _you!_ "

"Precious!" cried Miss Giddy. "You will not speak to your mother that way!"

"It's alright, Miss Giddy. It's been a day," her mother sighed, looking utterly exhausted. Suddenly, it appeared as though an invisible hand hooked her belly on a string and pulled it toward the ceiling. She writhed as the pain seized her, bursts of air passing through her clenched teeth, which clearly held back the most agonized of sounds. Precious watched in total fear. She could not stand to see her like this, and it made her want to cry anew. Her mother's grip on her hand was growing impossibly tight, but she bore it in the hope that she could squeeze some of the pain out through her hand and it would pass more quickly.

It didn't. By the time her body went limp and sunk deep into the mattress, it felt like an eternity in Hell had passed. Precious had entirely forgotten what had been said before and could only wonder how on earth her mother - or any mother - could subject herself to this.

They sat in relative peace for a few moments, both recovering. When her mother spoke again, it was with an urgent fervency that scared her. "We don't have much time, now. I am going to tell you the plan, and you will follow it - for my sake and for yours."

Her mother's words and grip did not let up, and she had no choice but to sit and listen.

"When day breaks, you are going to the Land of Many Mothers. The Green Place. Imperator Furiosa will take you and keep you safe." Precious' mind scrambled to comprehend what her mother was telling her.

"You will never return here. And it breaks my heart. ... But it's what you have to do."

 _To be continued. ..._


End file.
